tirsdag 31. desember 2013

Today, the last day of the year, is the feast day of Pope Sylvester (d. 335), whose legendary afterlife had an important place in the Middle Ages. According to a later forgery, known as the Donation of Constantine, Pope Sylvester received all worldly power in the West from the emperor, presumably in gratitude for having cured him of leprosy (or so the legend goes), and this document was an important tool in the investiture struggle and the other skirmishes between Pope and Emperor that marked the High Middle Ages. This document was later proved to be a forgery by Lorenzo Valla (c.1407-57), and this critical refutation has by some been seen as the starting point of the literary aspect of the quattrocento humanist Renaissance.

Another legend concerning Pope Sylvester tells that a dragon once terrorised Rome with a noxious vapour which killed the citizens. In the Middle Ages, bad smell was a sign of wickedness, and this dragon was indeed a force of evil. Pope Sylvester then made his way to the dragon's lair, bound it in the name of God and brought its victims back to life. There are also other legends, some of which can be read about more thoroughly here.

It is in a way fitting that the last day of the year is the feast of a saint bringing the dead back to life, as the New Year mark our long way toward spring and the return of life. Best wishes for 2014.

lørdag 28. desember 2013

In the Catholic
sanctorale, today is the feast of the Holy Innocents, commemorating
the infants slaughtered upon King Herod's command as described in the
Gospel of Matthew 2:16-18. This tragic incident is one of the most
heart-wrenching parts of the Christmas story, and has given great
force to the Christian imagination, resulting in several artistic
renditions or literary meditations.

The historicity of
the massacre, however, is a matter of dispute among historians,
especially since Matthew remains our only source. It has also
effected religious debate, and for some it has been difficult to
reconcile that the sacrifice of these children was linked to the good
tidings of the Incarnation of the Word. One of those who were
troubled by this, was the English poet Richard Crashaw (1612-49), and
this can be seen in one of his poem, which is presented in this
blogpost. The text is taken from poetryfoundation.

The Flight to Egypt and Massacre of the InnocentsMS. Royal 1 D X, English psalter, 13th century (before 1220)
Courtesy of British Library

onsdag 25. desember 2013

Since it's Christmas Day, I find it proper to post one of the perhaps most cherished religious poems from Elizabethan England, namely Robert Southwell's The Burning Babe, published in 1595 in his collection St. Peter's Complaint. Allegedly, Ben Jonson once stated that he would rather have been the author of this particular poem than the entirety of his own bibliography. I, for my part, have a great fondness for the poem, especially because of the religious intensity conveyed in the metrics and the rhyme-scheme. The text is taken from luminarium.com.

Nativity with a particularly effulgent ChristchildMS. Egerton 2045, c.1460-c.1470, Central France, book of hours, Use of RomeCourtesy of British Library

As I in hoary winter's night stood shivering in the snow,
Surprised I was with sudden heat which made my heart to glow ;
And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near,
A pretty babe all burning bright did in the air appear ;
Who, scorchëd with excessive heat, such floods of tears did shed
As though his floods should quench his flames which with his tears were fed.
Alas, quoth he, but newly born in fiery heats I fry,
Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire but I !
My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns,
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns ;
The fuel justice layeth on, and mercy blows the coals,
The metal in this furnace wrought are men's defilëd souls,
For which, as now on fire I am to work them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath to wash them in my blood.
With this he vanished out of sight and swiftly shrunk away,
And straight I callëd unto mind that it was Christmas day.

In my previous blogpost I gave a brief introduction to the development of the
vanitas motif in art, and this blogposts examines another step in
this evolution, namely the motif of death in Arcadia, collectively
known as Et in Arcadia ego. This artistic genre draws on a
long legacy of bucolic writing reaching back into Greek and Roman
literature, with Vergilius' Bucolica and Georgica,
pastoral eclogues detailing the idyllic life of shepherds, as perhaps
the most important works. They retained their popularity throughout
the Middle Ages, and Vergilius' position in the eyes of the medieval
learned is perfectly exemplified by his role as Dante's guide through
Hell and Purgatory.

In the 16th century
pastoral poetry gained increased momentum with the critical debates
concerning Aristotle's Poetics, which had been translated into
Latin late in the preceding century. Aristotle's rules of drama gave
rise to the modern theatre, and also caused a lot of controversy
among literary theorists who sought to reconcile the Poetics
with Horatius' Ars Poetica, and some of the key points of
tension were whether the satyr play and the shepherd play were the
same, and whether either could be seen as a genre of its own on par
with the tragedy and the comedy. As these definitions were tried and
experimented with, a significant body of pastoral literature arose.
This occurred primarily in Italy, but several important works were
also written in England. These pastoral works were often composed for
the court, and frequently contrasted the deceits of courtly life with
the simplicity of the pastoral scene, often represented by Arcadia, a
region in Greece that had become synonymous with The Pastoral Idyll.

Among the most
important literary works to shape the late medieval and early modern
pastoral were the plays Aminta (1573) by Torquato Tasso and
The Faithful Shepherd (1590) by Giambattista Guarini. These
were not only texts to be performed, but statements in the ongoing
debate on genre, where the views of the playwright were put to paper
and then executed on stage. The Arcadian scene was already a
long-standing feature in Italian literature, from Jacopo Sannazzaro's
very influential poem Arcadia from 1504 and onwards. This
tradition also influenced English writers of the times, and among the
foremost are Edmund Spenser, who wrote his Shepheardes Calender
in 1579 in imitation of Vergilius, and Sir Philip Sidney, whose The
Duchess of Pembroke's Arcadia drew on Sannazzaro's poem, among
others.

In the 17th century,
this pastoral tradition was merged with the contemporary vanitas
motif in art, and resulted in some beautiful and deeply unsettling
paintings, where the pastoral idyll was disrupted by the discovery of
death's presence, even in the blissful Arcadia. The first example of
this sub-genre, that I know of, is a painting by Giovanni Francesco
Barbieri executed in the the period 1618-22. Barbieri, also known as
Guercino, or the Squinter, here depicts two shepherds discovering a
human skull, the proof that death also lurks in the blessed Arcadia.
This sinister composition is given extra gravity when compared with
another of Guercino's paintings, Apollo and Marsyas, where the
same shepherds are witness to Marsyas' penalty, as seen below.

Et in Arcadia Ego, Guercino (1618-22)

Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Apollon and Marsyas, Guercino (1618)

Courtesy of Wikigallery

The most famous
rendition of death in Arcadia was painted by Nicholas Poussin in
1637-38 and titled Les Bergers d'Arcadie, The Shepherds of
Arcadia, as seen above. This iconic painting of shepherds examining a
tomb was, however, a later variation of the theme, and the first
painting was finished in 1627 with a slightly different composition
as seen below.

Les Bergers d'Arcadie, Nicholas Poussin (1627)

These doleful
meditations on death's omnipresence are a very beautiful confluence
of the vanitas motif and the literary pastoral, evoking the
mythological register of Arcadia while playing on the symbolism of
the vanitas in a manner worthy of the rising Baroque of the
first half of the 17th century, giving a contemporary touch to
elements of a rich and long-standing history.

lørdag 14. desember 2013

As with the wind wavis the wicker,So wavis this warldis
vanitie- Lament for the makaris, William DunbarWhy
then doth Flesh, a Bubble-glass of Breath,Hunt after Honour and
Advauncement vain,And rear a Trophee for devouring Death,With
so great Labour and long-lasting Pain,As if his Days for ever
should remain?Sith all that in this World is great or gay,Doth
as a Vapour vanish and decay. - The Ruines of Time, Edmund
Spenser

One
of the most prevalent and, to my mind, fascinating themes in 16th-
and 17th-century culture is the vanitas,
the meditation on human transience and the inherent futility in any
human endeavour when faced with the brevity of life. This theme
relies of course on the great philosophical heritage of the
Judeo-Christian tradition (with Ecclesiastes as the most immediate
and influential source) and also the Latin tradition as exemplified
by the stoicism of Seneca. However, that this should burgeon into a
category of its own in art and poetry in the 16th century, can only
be explained by various meditations on death in late-medieval culture
that appeared after the Black Plague, and in a way one might consider
the vanitas to be the natural conclusion to and the apex of a
cultural current that began in the 14th century, where the potential
imminence of death and its ubiquity served as a reminder that one
should keep one's life in order and not stray from the narrow path, a
memento mori keeping
the fickle nature of mankind in check in the expectation of God's
final judgement. This evolved into the cultural expression of vado
mori, I go to die, which had as
its core the idea that as you lived, so would you also die, and the
trick was to live a good, Christian life lest one should fare very
badly.

In
the 16th century this mode of thought grew into a coherent,
pronounced theme which was called vanitas,
which often was presented through a collection of symbols with
connotations of transience and brevity, such as the flickering or
extinguished candle or lamp, the skull, the fading flower, the empty
glass and so on. In some cases also the cultural or political
pursuits of mankind were represented, either through musical
instruments, a globe or political paraphernalia. Very frequently this
was expressed in still lives, but could also be executed in more
dramatic paintings, as seen below in Juan de Valdés Leal's
(1622–1690)
In ictu oculi from
1672. The title comes from 1 Corinthians 15:52 and means "in the
blink of an eye".

Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Pieter Claesz, 1630

Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

The
vanitas genre also had a sub-genre known collectively as homo
bulla est, man is a bubble,
where one single metaphor was expressed in various ways, often with a
putto blowing bubbles, showing painfully well the fragile nature of
life. One of the most well-known and emblematic renditions of this
sub-genre can be seen below, made by Hendrik Goltzius around 1594.

These
paintings are just a few examples of this wide-spread and
long-lasting genre of art, and there are many other beautiful
renditions of the theme to be found. I find it very interesting that this mode of thought should be expressed through a medium that is of itself a symbol of man's transience and futility along with so many other human pursuits like music or poetry. The painters must have been aware of this, and this reflection can also be found in literature as well. Remember that this is the time when Edmund Spenser had his Colin Clout break his pipe and Shakespeare made Prospero bury his books "deeper than did ever plummet sound", both of which have been interpreted as renunciations of the poetic pursuit.

This is, as stated, merely an introduction to this cultural phenomenon, and maybe I'll put up a few more in time. In any case, in a year when the word "selfie"
as become Oxford Dictionary's word of the year, and when
exhibitionism appears to be more or less unbridled, it is sometimes
nice or at least useful to cast one's eyes a bit wider than the
immediate moment.

søndag 8. desember 2013

These days I'm preparing for my exam in a course on Victorian medievalisms and my mind is often in the 19th century. This course has covered a wide number of aspects from Victorian culture, two of which were the Pre-Raphaelites and Alfred Lord Tennyson. Since I like to keep a regular posting of four blogposts a month, I thought it proper to share some 19th-century culture, namely two poems by Tennyson and John William Waterhouse's paintings which appear to be based on these poems. The subject is not specifically medieval, but very, very Victorian.

I was inspired to put up these works after listening to a programme on BBC Radio 3 produced by medievalist Sarah Peverley. The programme is no longer available, but the playlists can be found here.

I.

Who would beA mermaid fair,Singing alone,Combing her hairUnder the sea,In a golden curlWith a comb of pearl,On a throne?

II.

I would be a mermaid fair;I would sing to myself the whole of the day;With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair;And still as I comb'd I would sing and say,Who is it loves me? who loves not me?I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fallLow adown, low adown,From under my starry sea-bud crownLow adown and around,And I should look like a fountain of goldSpringing aloneWith a shrill inner sound,Over the throneIn the midst of the hall;Till that great sea-snake under the seaFrom his coiled sleeps in the central deepsWould slowly trail himself sevenfoldRound the hall where I sate, and look in at the gateWith his large calm eyes for the love of me.And all the mermen under the seaWould feel their immortalityDie in their hearts for the love of me.

III.

But at night I would wander away, away,I would fling on each side my low-flowing locks,And lightly vault from the throne and playWith the mermen in and out of the rocks;We would run to and fro, and hide and seek,On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson shells,Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea.But if any came near I would call, and shriek,And adown the steep like a wave I would leapFrom the diamond-ledges that jut from the dells;For I would not be kiss'd by all who would list,Of the bold merry mermen under the sea;They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me,In the purple twilights under the sea;But the king of them all would carry me,Woo me, and win me, and marry me,In the branching jaspers under the sea;Then all the dry pied things that beIn the hueless mosses under the seaWould curl round my silver feet silently,All looking up for the love of me.And if I should carol aloud, from aloftAll things that are forked, and horned, and softWould lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea,All looking down for the love of me.

I.

Who would beA merman bold,Sitting alone,Singing aloneUnder the sea,With a crown of gold,On a throne?

II.

I would be a merman bold,I would sit and sing the whole of the day;I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power;But at night I would roam abroad and playWith the mermaids in and out of the rocks,Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower;And holding them back by their flowing locksI would kiss them often under the sea,And kiss them again till they kiss'd meLaughingly, laughingly;And then we would wander away, awayTo the pale-green sea-groves straight and high,Chasing each other merrily.

III.

There would be neither moon nor star;But the wave would make music above us afar --Low thunder and light in the magic night --Neither moon nor star.We would call aloud in the dreamy dells,Call to each other and whoop and cryAll night, merrily, merrily;They would pelt me with starry spangles and shells,Laughing and clapping their hands between,All night, merrily, merrily:But I would throw to them back in mineTurkis and agate and almondine:Then leaping out upon them unseenI would kiss them often under the sea,And kiss them again till they kiss'd meLaughingly, laughingly.Oh! what a happy life were mineUnder the hollow-hung ocean green!Soft are the moss-beds under the sea;We would live merrily, merrily.

fredag 29. november 2013

A few weeks back I
published a blogpost on the blessed Fina of San Gimignano, a virgin
recluse who eventually was appointed patron saint for her native
city, despite not being recognised by the Papal church. In this
blogpost I will give a brief introduction to the life and legacy of
another saint from the similar category, namely Verdiana of
Castelfiorentino.

Verdiana shares a
number of traits with the blessed Fina. She was born in 1182 into an
aristocratic family, but later forsook her riches and pursued a life
of spirituality inspired by the teachings of Francis of Assisi, whom
she allegedly once met. This led her on a pilgrimage to Santiago da
Compostela, and upon returning home she became a recluse in her
native town. Immured in her cell she lived a life of poverty,
asceticism, forsaking of the flesh and contemplative devotion towards
God. Thus she reportedly lived in Castelfiorentino for thirty-four
years until her death in 1242. Towards the end of her life, it is
traditionally believed that two snakes entered her cell and began
eating her flesh. Being committed to the suffering of the body she
allowed them to feed and lived in intense pain for the brief
remainder of her life. This episode is often represented in art, as
seen above.

After her death,
Verdiana became the subject of local devotion, and her first vita
was written towards the end of the 13th century by an unknown author.
This was a time when Franciscan and Dominican monks condemned this
kind of popular, unauthorised devotion, as exemplified by Salimbene
da Adam, a Franciscan chronicler. A few decades later, however, the
Church was in disarray and mendicant orders sought therefore to
employ these local cults to bolster a religiosity in tune with their
own spirituality. At the turn of the 13th century, the anonymous
vita, known as the Vita Antiquor, the old life, was
collected in a hagiographical anthology by a monk called Blasio. This
vita was the basis for a later rendition authored by
Giacomini, a Dominican bishop, in 1420, a testament to the longevity
of Verdiana's cult.

Another testament to
the popularity of Verdiana's cult, and that she was famous beyond the
reaches of Castelfiorentino, is a reference found in Boccaccio's
Decamerone, day V, story x. In this tale, Boccaccio tells of a
young woman who wishes to take a lover, and in order to procure one
she seeks out the advice of "an acquaintance of an old bawd who
to all outward appearances was as innocent as Saint Verdiana feeding
the sepents, for she made a point of attending all the religious
servics clutching her rosary" (translation by G. H. McWilliam),
while in reality being a hypocrite whom Boccaccio effectively makes
the young woman's pimp.

The cult of Verdiana
also resulted in production of art. In 1490, the painter Benozzo
Gozzoli, whose talents were also commissioned by the devotees of Fina
of San Gimignano, painted the above fresco of Verdiana, and this was
produced on the order of Castelfiorentino's podestà Jacopo di
Antonio Peri.

fredag 22. november 2013

Ever since
completing my MA thesis I have had a potentially unhealthy obsession
with Edward the Confessor. This is why I tend to use him as a point
of reference when exploring the medieval catalogue of saints, and
this is also why I keep a lookout for his iconography, and I'm always
excited to learn of new images and new renditions of him. For this
reason I was very happy to find a stained glass window in York, which
to my mind most likely depicted Edward the Confessor, and this
blogpost gives an introduction to Edward's standing in the North.

The above stained
glass can be found in St. Helen's Church, York, and dates to the
later Middle Ages. The church is situated in the centre of York and
was the parish church of glass-painters who resided in Stonegate, and
their emblem can be found among the extant stained glass paintings.

The window
portraying Edward the Confessor is placed in a group comprised of -
from left to right - William of York, the Virgin Mary and St. Helen.
Edward is the rightmost figure, and as seen above he holds an object
which looks like the ring he reportedly received from John the
Baptist, and which was one of his major attributes in medieval
renditions of him. The story was told by Aelred of Rievaulx and
gained immense popularity. In the information leaflet provided in the
church, it is suggested that this figure is Emperor Constantine, but
this is highly unlikely since he was not considered a saint in
medieval times - at least not officially. In a book on stained glass
in York which I stupidly forgot to note, but which can be bought at
Waterstones in the city, it is stated that the glass does indeed
depict the Confessor, though no evidence is cited for this. I,
however, believe this to be the only likely explanation for
iconographic reasons.

William of York (d.1154, can.1227)

Virgin Mary

Interestingly, this
painting situated below that of the Virgin Mary, may also depict the
Confessor, possibly together with St. John the Evangelist, to whom
Edward was especially devoted

St. Helen

After this find I
went to visit York Minster's undercroft where I happened to note a
roof painting from the York Minster chapter house depicting St.
Edmund of East Anglia. The painting in question dated from c.1290. I
was quite excited to see this, since I have a major fascination for
the cult of St. Edmund as well as that of St. Edward, and these two
saints often appear together in later medieval art (and also
sometimes in literature). This was the second depiction of St. Edmund
I had found in York, the first being a carving from St. Mary's Abbey,
which was refurbished in the 13th century. The figure can be found at
Yorkshire Museum together with St. Cuthbert.

Edmund holding his arrows

Cuthbert, holding the head of St. Oswald

After having found
St. Edmund, I went to ask one of the curators whether there were any
depictions of Edward the Confessor in the Minster, and he told me
there was none to be found to my initial surprise, seeing as the
Confessor had in his time been generously munificient towards the
Minster. The curator was wrong, however, as there is a 14th-century depiction of Edward in the lady chapel, but this I learned later. As I talked about the subject with the curator, however, I remembered a few
important details from my MA research which made it all abundantly
clear why Edward should ostensibly - yet incorrectly - not be present in the York Minster art programme.

St. Edmund and his arrows, painting from York Minster's chapter house, c.1290

Edward's lack of
widespread support in the North is a result of the long-standing
conflict between the North and the South, and in particular between
the Archbishopric of York and the Archbishopric of Canterbury, at
that time locked in a continuous squabble over whose archbishop was
the primate of England.

This division in the
English medieval church runs deep, and when Osbert of Clare failed in
his petition to have Edward canonised by the Papacy around 1138, lack
of wide ecclesiastical support was probably one of the main reasons
why he failed, together with King Stephen's meddling in the Church's
affairs. After the Anarchy, however, Alexander III granted the
request for canonisation due to the wide clerical support Osbert that
had been lacking earlier, and the 12 surviving petition letters do
indeed represent a wide clerical spectrum, including the Archbishop
of York. However, this unity proved deceptive and when Edward the
Confessor was translated to a new tomb at Westminster on October 13
1163, only the diocese of Canterbury was represented.

The lack of
devotional paraphernalia pertaining to Edward the Confessor in York
suggests that this strife between the two archbishoprics were
long-standing and that to the northerners, Edward the Confessor
remained a southern saint. It should also be noted, however, that
Edward never achieved any wide popularity beyond Westminster and the
royal court, so this is not very surprising after all. However, not
even Henry III's presence in York - he refurbished Clifford's Tower
as his royal manor - was sufficient to move York towards greater
appreciation of Edward, and instead the citizens and the clergy
focussed on local saints and, as it seems, St. Edmund, whose fame
rivalled that of Edward for most of the 12th and 13th centuries in
the country at large. Interestingly, this goes contrary to the claim
made in the liturgy for Edward the Confessor, composed at Westminster
in the 12th century, where it is stated that the entire country
rejoices in his sanctity.

I do not know who
commissioned the stained glass windows of St. Helen's and York Minster's lady chapel, or what moved the former to place
Edward alongside an important local saint such as William of York.
Nonetheless, this is an interesting anomaly in York's devotional
landscape, and it shows the disparity between the overarching
devotional trends and personal preference.

It is of course
important to note that absence of evidence is not evidence of
absence, and it may be that Edward had a more prominent role among
York's medieval citizenry than has been known or is suggested by the
surviving material. Yet ecclesio-political considerations suggest
that there is not much to find in this department, and it is perhaps
emblematic that the only church around York dedicated to Edward that
I know of, is the 19th-century church at Dringhouses.

søndag 10. november 2013

Last year I posted a few November poems in order to keep a regular posting schedule while in the depths of ennui. This time around I've not sunken completely back into those depths, so this poem is one I would just like to share, namely one of Folgòre da San Gimignano's sonnets of the months.

Folgòre da San Gimignano (fl. 1309-1317) was born Giacomo da Michele but was given his nom de plume on account of his splendid way of life in his native San Gimignano, which is said to be reflected in his poems. He wrote on the pleasures of life, and the poem posted below is from his sonetti dei mesi, the sonnets of the months, which he, according to this website, was dedicated to a band of Siense nobles who took a rather hedonistic approach to life. The poem will be first given in the Italian, and below you will find a translation made by Dante Gabriel Rossetti. The Italian text is taken from wikisource, while Rossetti's translation comes from this website.

fredag 8. november 2013

The following is based on a lecture I gave to the student organisation for history students at the Norwegian University of Science and Technology earlier this autumn. The translations of passages are all from the editors of the works cited, and the pictures are all from wikimedia.

Introduction

When William Bastard, duke of Normandy,
invaded England in 1066 he was very concerned that this would have
the bearings of an enterprise that was legitimate according to
contemporary norms. After William had been crowned at Westminster
Abbey on Christmas Eve that same year, he made severe efforts to
persuade the surviving high-born members of Anglo-Saxon society that
he truly was the king of England, and that he was the true deserving
subject of their loyalty. As a part in this campaign the writing of
history was an important tool, and various Norman and Anglo-Norman
chronicles were to argue that William's invasion was not a
usurpation, but, quite the contrary, an expedition to rid England of
the usurper Harold Godwinson. This text will show in which ways
Harold's posthumous reputation was constructed to cement the Norman
claim to legitimacy and how this legacy lasted well beyond William
the Conqueror's death.

Harold Godwinson in the Bayeux Tapestry

Note the moustaches

Background - Harold Godwinson

Harold
Godwinson was born early in the 1020s. His father was one of the most
powerful nobles of the Danish empire, and his mother belonged to
another Danish house of nobles. During the reign of King Edward the
Confessor, the house of Godwin was among the greatest political
dynasties in Anglo-Saxon England, and Godwin gave his daughter Edith
as the king's wife.

In
1051 England was heading towards a civil war beteween the forces of
the Godwin family on one side and those of King Edward on the other.
One of the key reasons for this was that King Edward had brought
bishops and nobles from the continent, presumably owing to his
childhood exile in Fécamp in Normandy. This was met with
protestations from the native nobles, and it was a particularly grave
matter that the Norman Robert of Jumièges was appointed to the See
of Canterbury. Robert had already served as bishop of London and
during his rule he had established a hostile relationship with the
Godwin family. In the early days of the unrest Robert set out a
rumour that Godwin had authored the death of King Edward's brother,
Alfred, several years earlier. This made matters worse for the Godwin
family and they had to flee into exile. They returned, however,
already in 1052 and made peace with the king. The following year
Godwin himself died from a stroke during the Easter meal of the royal
celebration at Windsor, and this was to have great ramifications of
Harold Godwinson's posthumous reputation, as we shall see.

When
his father died, Earl Harold was the most powerful noble of the
kingdom, and his landed revenue even exceeded that of the king. It is
therefore no wonder that the childless King Edward were to appoint
Harold Godwinson has his successor on his deathbed in January 1066.
Harold's own reign lasted only 10 months, and in October that same
year he died at the Battle of Hastings, allegedly by an arrow through
the eye.

Contemporary likeness of Harold the King

Norman historiography

William
of Jumièges

Christmas
Eve 1066 Duke William became king of a country he had no family bonds
to, and he was well aware of the necessity in establishing his
legitimate right as rule of the English. The key to this problem was
King Edward. In his youth, Edward has been in exile in Normandy and
in the new reign of William it was now purported that Edward, in
gratitude for his Norman lodgings, had promised the throne of England
to the family of Duke William. This claim was first put forth by the
Norman chronicler William of Jumièges in his Gesta
Normannorum Ducum,
which was completed around 1070.

According
to William's chronicle, King Edward had sent the archbishop of
Canterbury, the anti-Godwinist Robert, to William Bastard with the
purpose of appointing him as Edward's heir (1). This claim was also
put forth in the poem Carmen
de Hastingae Proelio,
and the poet even exceeds the chronicler. In the poet it is stated
that not only had King Edward appointed William, but he had done so
with the support of the entire English people. Furthermore, in the
poem Edward - with Robert as his vessel - hands William his ring and
his sword, an investiture episode whose symbolic strength and
importance can not be overestimated (2).

However,
it was an indisputable fact that King Edward had also appointed Earl
Harold as his successor, as testified by a number of contemporary
witnesses, William of Jumièges solved the problem accordingly:
Edward, we are told, asked Harold to swear fealty to William as his
next lord and king. Harold promises to do so and leaves for Normandy
to perform the oath before William the Bastard. On the way he is
captured by a local count, but he is later released from captivity by
Duke William. In other words, not only is Duke William the man
appointed as Harold's future king, he is also his saviour (3).
Consequently, it becomes an even graver matter when Harold later
seizes the throne upon Edward's death. He is both an oath-breaker and
a usurper, and this is why Harold is depicted as dying from an arrow
piercing his eye, for according to contemporary ideas, this was how
oath-breakers died (4). Despite this, however, it is interesting to
note that Harold is in fact labelled as rex
in the Bayeux tapestry.

Harold
dies early in the Battle of Hastings, according to William of
Jumiéges, and many Englishmen were also slaughtered. This was
considered God's punishment for the murder on Alfred, King Edward's
brother. William does indeed go so far as to call Harold "a
traitor like Judas" (5).

Harold swears his oath to William

William
of Poitiers

The
next historiography to be written in the aftermath of the conquest
was the Gesta
Guillelmi
of William of Poitier, also composed around 1070. The narrative
follows the pattern presented in Gesta
Normannorum Ducum,
but William of Poitiers adds a few more details. In his version,
Harold admits to swearing fealty to Duke WIlliam, but that King
Edward passed the lordship of England over to him on Edward's
deathbed, and that Duke William's claim is against English custom.
Duke William is of course offended by this, but he says that he will
let the English people decide, not wishing the English to die as
enemies on account of this disagreement (6). Earl Harold, on the
other hand, ignores this peace offer and leads his army towards
Hastings. Thus, Harold's betrayal becomes even more severe and it is
he who is responsible for sending the English into their death.

It
is nonetheless interesting to note that William of Poitiers treats
Harold with a certain amount of respect. He compares Harold's prowess
in battle with heroes from classical poetry - which in turn serves to
elevate Duke William's own prowess and courage - and the chronicler
states that "we do not revile you, Harold; but we grieve and
mourn for you with the pious victor who weeps over your ruin. You
have reaped the reward that you deserved, and have fallen bathed in
your own blood; you lie in a tumulus on the seashore and will be an
abomintion to future generations of English no less than Normans"
(7). Harold is placed in a tumulus,
a grave for the common folk, in the manner of Pompey as described in
Statius' Thebaid.
Harold thus becomes an epic antagonist who leads his people into
destruction and therefore gets his deserved revenge.

This
was the first stage of the history writing which established Harold
Godwinson's reputation as the great historical antagonist in the game
of England. How many of the English who actually believed in these
historigraphical constructions is impossible to ascertain, but due to
the contemporary understanding of history - where mankind was subject
to the assaults of the Devil in a grand narrative presided over by
God - it was necessary to find an antagonist who could bear the blame
in order to make sense of the punishments meted out by the Divine on
account of the evils of kings and clergy. For instance, in the text
Vita Ædwardi,
King Edward's first biography, it was the clergy and particularly
Archbishop Stigand, who bore the blame for the troubles wrought upon
the English, while the Norman sources move the blame over to Harold.

Later
generations of historiographers also used Harold as the grand
antagonist in the scheme of English history, and if nothing else,
Harold was at least an expedient figure for this matter. Regardless
what the individual chroniclers themselves believed, it was necessary
to explain why God had allowed Duke William - whom many probably
considered a wicked tyrant - to invade and conquer the English. King
Edward's reign was lauded as a golden age of peace contrasted with
the harsh rule of William, and Edward was honoured by both English
and Norman historiographers. Harold, on the other hand, suited both
sides as a historical villain, as shall be seen, both those who saw
things from the Norman perspective and those of the other side.

English historiography

Eadmer
of Canterbury

One
of the voices from the other side was the historian Eadmer of
Canterbury, born shortly after the battle of Hastings and strongly
nostalgic towards the English. In his Historia
Novorum in Anglia
he presents a new twist to the Norman historical fiction. In Eadmer's
rendition Harold is forced by William to yield his lordship by Duke
William during Harold's stay in Normandy, and King Edward later
scolds Harold for thus having brought England into disaster. Eadmer
adds that the Normans claim Harold died because of this broken oath
(8).

The
next important historiographer is William of Malmesbury, who wrote
his Gesta Regum
Anglorum
in the 1120s. He occupies a special place in the historiographical
landscape since he was himself of both Norman and English heritage.
Nonetheless, he unquestionably belongs to the English historians
since he exhibits clear sympathies for the English and laments that
the English culture is losing ground to the culture of the Normans.
William is also interesting because he has a more nuanced view of
King Edward than found in the works of earlier historians.

William
points out that there are various view on how Harold acceded to the
English throne. In his own opus, William seized the crown and uses
here the verb arripere
which may have connotations to thievery or otherwise illegal action
(9). The English, William states, claims that Harold was given the
crown from King Edward, and it is possible that William here also
includes Eadmer of Canterbury, whom he refers to in his introduction.
Despite uncertainty regarding the details, William, too, states that
Harold had promised to give the crown to Duke William and that he
thereby was guilty of oath-breaking. In his summary of the Battle of
Hastings, William points out that Harold deserved his death because
of his faithlessness.

Harold crowned as king. Note the vilified Stigand on his left

Henry
Huntingdon

The
final historiographer in this overview is Henry Huntingdon, who
completed his Historia
Anglorum
in the 1150s. Henry is perhaps that historiographer who passes the
most severe judgement on Harold Godwinsson, and this suggests that
his sources - including his English material - carries a strongly
anti-Godwinist tone.

In
his description of Harold's accession to the throne, Henry applies
the word inuadere,
which points to an aggressive, though not necessarily violent, action
(10). The meaning is nonetheless clear: Harold was a usurper who came
to the throne by means of force rather than law, and this was one of
three reasons Duke William invaded England. The other two reasons
also pertained to the Godwin family.

Henry's
antipathy towards the Godwin family is not, however, most clearly
expressed in his depiction of Harold, but the portrayal of Harold's
father, Godwin. As stated in the introduction, Godwin died from a
stroke during the Easter celebration at Windsor in 1053, and Henry
fused this tradition with William of Jumièges' description of Godwin
as a Judas in a powerful condemnation of Godwin and his family. Henry
was not the first to do this, but it shows how powerful this legacy
was even about a century following Godwin's death.

Henry
tells us that Godwin was anxious to persuade King Edward that he had
nothing to do with the murder of his brother Alfred. During the
Easter meal in 1053, therefore, Godwin says to King Edward that "if
the God of heaven is true and just, may He grant that this little
pice of bread shall not pass my throat if I have ever thought of
betraying you". Henry furthermore states that God heard Godwin's
false words and shortly afterwards Godwin chokes on the piece of
bread and thus "tasted endless death" (11).

This
episode is heavy with symbolism. It is set at Easter, the holiest
time of the Christian year, it takes the form as a Last Supper scene
and Godwin furthermore swears an oath despite Christ's commandment
not to swear. Godwin is thus expressly portrayed as a Judas, and
Harold Godwinson is thereby the son of a Judas which adds further
shame to his own broken oath roughly 13 years later.

The death of Harold

Conclusion

Harold
Godwinson's posthumous reputation was one of the historiographical
legacies of the Norman invasion of 1066 and maintained a strong
position long into later centuries. Harold becomes an antagonist in a
cosmic game which caused the English to be subjected to the Norman
yoke. This is a testamtent to the duration and longevity of literary
legacies and a testamtent to the force of medieval historiography.

Notes

1)
Van Houts 2003: vol. II, 158-59

2)
Barlow 1999: 18. Traditionally, this poem has been attributed to
Bishop Guy de Amiens and dated to c.1067, but later research suggests
it may have been composed as late as c.1125. See Riggs 2006: 16-17.

3) Van Houts 2003: vol. II, 160-61

4) Fleming 2004

5) Van Houts 2003: vol. II, 106-07

6) Davis and Chibnall 1998: 122-23

7) Davis and Chibnall 1998: 140-41

8) Bosanquet 1964: 6-9

9) Mynors et.al. 1998: 416-17

10) Greenway 2007: 384-85

11)
Greenway 2007: 378-79. Interestingly,
Wace's Roman
de Rou comes
closest to ascribing Edward any direct agency. In Godwin's trial by
morsel Edward makes the sign of the cross over it, thus in effect
bringing about Godwin's death (Burgess 2004: line 5456)

onsdag 30. oktober 2013

There's no hiding that ever since beginning my MA thesis I have been cultivating a minor obsession with Edward the Confessor
(d. 1066, can. 1161), as may be evidenced by the number of blogposts
wherein he features. One of my fascinations is to see how he has been
represented throughout the ages, and how people at various times in
history have formulated and envisioned him. On the whole, most of the
depictions are similar, and this is of course to be expected as part of
the point of such a depiction is to make it easily recognised by
on-lookers. However, looking around on the Internet for images of
Edward, I came across a stained glass window which was very unusual.

This stained glass window can be found at the Church of St. Nicholas in Ickford, Buckinghamshire. It was executed by Sir John Ninian Comper (1864-1960) in the 1920s, and is available on wikimedia.org thanks to Allan Barton, who has uploaded this image to his flickr account and provided the basic information.

It is an unusual picture. First there's his dress - which looks like a floreate leotard with buttons - whose pattern brings to mind the background vines of late medieval stained glass, and to my (albeit minor) experience this pattern is rarely given so much prominence. Nor does it add a regal look to one of England's most important royal saints. Secondly, Edward has no beard. This is the most interesting deviation from the norm, for ever since the first expansive sources depicting Edward, his beard has been mentioned and given some significance. This has been treated to some extent in an earlier blogpost. It has also been a major feature in portraiture depicting Edward throughout the Middle Ages and into the modern era. Some examples can be seen here. A later depiction can for instance be found on this excellent blog.

Edward the Confessor as a beardless youth is therefore an unusual occurrence, and it has led me to think that the identification with the Confessor might be incorrect. If the stained glass window does depict Saint Edward, this might be Saint Edward the Martyr who died in 978 at around the age of fifteen. The confusion of these two saints is not uncommon.

Until I have been able to make further inquiries myself I cannot dismiss the identification, but I do remain somewhat skeptical.

torsdag 24. oktober 2013

Mylde answer made: he was an errant knight- The Faerie Queene, Edmund Spenser

A few days back I was roaming the Internet for Pre-Raphaelite paintings, when I happened to come across this beautiful piece by John Everett Millais (1829-96) from 1870 titled "Painting the Knight Errant". The title is a little misleading since, at least to the modern mind, it implies a meta-dimension, but this is not the case. The painting is a lovely composition and showcases the enthusiastic and fertile medievalism embraced by the Pre-Raphaelites.

Millais has chosen has his subject the errant knight, an important figure from medieval romance and renaissance epic. The most famous examples from English literature are found in Edmund Spenser's Faerie Queene, modelled to a significant extent on the great 16th-century Italian epics like Orlando Furioso by Ariosto (1474-1533) and Gerusalemme Liberata by Torquato Tasso (1544-95). Spenser's well-wrought allegory features several of these knights errants, who were armed soldiers roaming the world for quests and challenges, but not all of them are honourable or protagonists. What defines a good errant knight appears to be the nobility of the quests he agrees to undertake, and sometimes the grand, overarching quest which leads him through the world, such as The Redcrosse Knight's quest to liberate the Faerie Queene from a monstrous dragon.

The notion that the errant knight could have a potential for evil was also picked up by Alfred Lord Tennyson in his Idylls of the King, where he notes that before Arthur gained proper control of the land, many an errant knight could be found throughout it, and Tennyson uses them as one of the symbols of anarchy and chaos preceding the golden age of Arthur. The errant knights of Idylls of the King are markedly different from Arthur's knight in that they leave Camelot first when they have a quest, rather than sauntering throughout the world on the prowl for one. It is also emblematic that Geraint, after he has fallen prey of jealousy and succumbed to the intrinsic darkness, takes his wife Enid and wanders aimlessly about just like an errant knight.

In medieval romance and in renaissance epics, the trope of the errant knight is a brilliant pretext for action and an excellent way of making the adventure move from one location to another, and this was exuberantly taken advantage of by the epic poets of the 16th cenutry.

Om meg

Norwegian medievalist, bibliophile, lover of art, music and food. This blog is a mixture of things personal and scholarly and it serves as a venue for me to share things I find interesting with likeminded people.